The Eagles Prophecy

Minucius undid the fastenings on the flap and the other centurions narrowed their eyes as an icy blast of wind gusted into the tent and swelled its sides, straining the seams. Macro shuffled over and struggled to get the pegs back into their slots.

'What's the point?' Cato muttered. 'He'll be back soon.'

'Well, there's no point in us freezing our balls off while we wait, is there?'

Cato shrugged and clutched his blanket more tightly about his thin frame. He doubted there would be any sleep for him that night. It was just too uncomfortable, no matter how tired he felt. Soon his teeth were chattering and Macro shot an irritable glance at him before turning round and curling up, inside his waterproof cloak on a thick bed of branches.

Minucius returned shortly afterwards and nodded a good night at Cato before he took to his makeshift bed, and soon both of the veterans were asleep and snoring loudly.

'Shit,' Cato muttered, bitter with envy. He shuffled around, trying to find a comfortable position, but lying on either side left the other exposed to the icy chill that somehow reached through the entrance of the tent and clutched at him with frozen fingers. He endured over an hour of this torment, becoming steadily more miserable, before he gave up and rose into a sitting position, hugging his knees tightly to his chest and rubbing his shoulders vigorously to try to get some warmth back into his muscles. Outside, the wind was dying down, only rising to a keen moaning on the occasional gust. But that was small comfort to Cato, shivering in his tent.

He tried to think about something else, anything else, and his mind turned again to the mysterious scrolls that meant so much to Narcissus. More important, it seemed, than the pirate menace itself. The operation being mounted to deal with the pirates was largely a front, a disguise to hide the real object of Rome's attention. If that was Narcissus' game then the scrolls must be worth the lives of a good many men. But what could be so important? Lists of traitors? State secrets from Parthia? It could be anything, Cato decided in frustration.

The wind died away completely for a moment and the sides of the tent hung limply about him. Then Cato heard a scream – short, shrill and some distance off. It seemed to echo off the mountainside for an instant, and then the wind rose again and the sound was gone. He threw back the blanket from his head and strained his ears to try to catch the sound again. And there it was: a thin tortured cry, just audible above the moaning wind and irregular slap and thud of tent leather. He reached over and shook Macro's shoulder. There was no response and he shook again, harder this time, and pinched his fingers into the bulk of Macro's muscles. The older centurion stirred into startled consciousness.

'What? What is it? Where's my sword?' His hand immediately went for the blade, then he focused on the dark outline of Cato, squatting beside him.

'Quiet!' Cato said softly. 'Just listen!'

'Listen? What for?'

'Shhh! Just listen…'

Both men stayed still, ears straining, but all that they could hear was the sound of the wind outside. Macro gave up.

'You mind telling me what I'm listening for?'

'I heard a scream.'

'A scream? Up here in the mountains? Sure it wasn't the wind?'

'I'm positive.'

'Maybe some bacchanalian revelry of the mountain folks then.'

'Quiet! There it is!'

This time Macro did hear the sound: unmistakably human and carrying with it a clear sense of torment and agony. The scream was abruptly cut off, and Macro felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

'Shit. You're right.'

'What should we do?'

Macro threw back his blanket and groped for his boots. 'Check it out, of course. Come on. Bring your sword.'

'What about Minucius?'

'Leave him. I'm not going to look like some jumpy recruit. We'll just check it out and come back for help if we need it. Let's go.'

As they emerged from the tent they saw that the snow had stopped falling, and a thick blanket of white covered all the tents and the wagons. A pair of sentries stood watch at each end of the camp site and stamped their feet to keep them from going numb. The wind had died down to a flukey breeze, and overhead thin shreds of silvery cloud flitted across the bright points of star constellations.

'This way,' Macro said quietly, and softly crunched through the snow towards the nearest sentry. The man stiffened as he noticed the officers approaching.

'Halt! Advance and be recog-'

'Shut up. If you don't know who we are yet you never will. You're supposed to be keeping watch for people approaching the camp, you dozy bastard, not those moving around inside it.'

'Sorry, sir.'

'It doesn't matter,' Cato cut in.

'Yes, it bloody does,' Macro grumbled.'If he can't keep a decent watch he's no use to anyone, even the marines.'

Cato ignored him and concentrated his attention on the sentry. 'Did you hear anything a moment ago?'

'Hear what, sir?'

'A man's voice, a scream.'

The sentry looked wary. 'I might have.'

'Don't fuck about, son.' Macro poked him in the chest.

'Did you hear something, or didn't you?'

'Yes, sir. But only for a moment. I might have imagined it. Thought it came from over there.' He gestured towards the rising mass of the hill behind the camp site. 'Up the hill, or more likely round the other side, I should think, sir.'

'Why didn't you raise the alarm?'

'For something I might have heard, or imagined, sir?'

'You don't take risks with other people's lives, lad. Understand?'

'Yes, sir. Want me to call out the rest of the men?'

'No,' said Macro. 'We'll investigate. If we're not back by the next change of watch, then you can raise the alarm. It's probably nothing to wet yourself over – just a wolf or something. Now get back on watch.'

The recruit saluted and turned to face away from the camp site.

Macro pointed up the side of the hill. 'That way, I think. Let's go.'

When they were out of earshot of the sentry Cato nudged him. 'A wolf?'

'Might be. I've heard them sound like that before.'

They reached the foot of the slope and waded through a drift until they came to the treeline, where a dense forest stretched up the slope. Very little snow had penetrated the heavy lower branches and the air was thick with the scent of pine. The incline was steep and they had to scrabble up on hands and feet, weaving between the tree trunks, making little sound as their boots trod on generations of dead pine needles. Sheltered from the breeze and warmed by their exertions, they emerged panting and sweating from the far side of the trees. By the loom of the snow they could see that there was a low craggy outcrop above them, and then the crest of the hill. Cato glanced back and saw the camp site some distance below them, hardly recognisable as tents and wagons under a thick blanket of snow. The scream came again, much more distinct this time, and the two centurions looked at each other.

'What do you reckon?' asked Cato.

'Sounds like some poor bastard's being given a hard time of it.' Macro took a deep breath and climbed towards the rocks. Cato followed, stepping into the deep footprints Macro had left in the snow. The rocks were loosely jumbled and there were sufficient handholds and ledges to make it easy going, and moments later Macro lent a hand to Cato and heaved him up on to a flat slab that overlooked the gorge the convoy had wound its way up that afternoon. Below them the road turned round the mass of the hill and rose up the other side.

They both saw the fire at once, a small glittering yellow glow at the edge of the road no more than a hundred paces below them. Four horses were tethered nearby, and the shapes of three men sitting on a fallen tree trunk close to the fire. A fourth was leaning over the end of the tree trunk and an agonised wail carried up the slope. The man stepped back towards the fire and revealed a fifth man, stripped to his waist and bound to the tree trunk. By the wan glow of the fire Macro and Cato could see black marks across his chest. The source of the marks was quickly apparent when the man who had been standing over him moved to the fire and lowered the tip of his sword into the heart of the small blaze.